ALLEGORY OF THE PELICAN

For as that Pelican yonder,
alighting on the Rosemary branch,
on the Rosemary bower,

gazes at the Sun descending,
eventide and day's ending,
light upon the Dead One falling

through the fissures of the shutter,
the sun's last ray across his face,
he awaits — the Resurrection.

And the Pelican bides its time,
when the Sun has already declined,
reckons the number of branches,

the branches of the Rosemary bush,
like the light of Faith itself,
murderous, it blinds:

"I ask of you, my Pilgrim Soul,
You, my Body, passed from this world,
in this grant me your accord.

The Pelican alights on the Rosemary's
bough, and its branches sway;
our wings at rest remain.

Christ counts the blows, five thousand
four hundred and two score, when
offense is given to Him,

and, within his Crown of Thorns,
thorns of seventy-two branches,
how great would be the torment,

were the Dead One to arise,
and walk here, like the Pelican,
its Allegory revived."


FINAL MATTERS: DEATH

There was nothing more than there should have been,
the common residue of the last few days,
gathered by the breeze into the courtyard nooks,
until Fanny the charwoman swept them away

and into the ground-floor flat called
"Good morning!" and "What's for lunch today?"
The sun shone down. Doves alighted on the eaves
and pockmarks on the cement were seen

each one by itself, for eternity. It was Spring.
The shutters were folded, the shades drawn.
The window opened just a crack, which was strange,
but maybe not so much. And then everyone

was seeking the cause of the peculiar smell. Evening
came, and morning again. The third day. No one
thought of the elderly couple in the ground-floor flat.
The detectives were bored. Nothing affects them

anymore. They were drunk when they got there and
guzzled even more at the drink-stand next door. The corpses
were buried quickly, because it was Easter. The case
was closed. And no one played the Dies irae.


AETERNITAS

(1)

The Eternal is
cold, like the chisel
used to carve
the face of our Jesus.

The Eternal is submerged,
like the pebble,
as you gaze at the river and see
the water again tranquil.

The Eternal leaps
away, like the flea
you clutch at in vain —
already the inferno.

The Eternal is profound,
like that awareness
in which resides
the mercy of our Christ.

The Eternal ticks
on, like the clock,
though maybe it misses
— at times — the dawn.

The Eternal is thin
as the blade of the knife
which Death then slips
into your heart.

The Eternal is,
like life itself, fleeting —
it comes to an end
while you're speaking.


ROSARY FOR THE NYMPHS

There is something in the soul. Perhaps a yearning for greatness
which never leaves one in peace. From memory, the time

of waiting falls away. Only circumstances remain,
the opened palm, the mouth askew, the cold

touch on the forehead. The eyelids bound
to the tear ducts with three or four stitches. Both

already closed, only a scalpel could open them
now. The umbilical cord, gnawed through with the teeth. The face

bloodied. The nymphs heard the grinding
of teeth. In the realms of poetry, all errant forms

followed the trace. The spilt milk left a stain
on the stone floor by the fridge. The shades thirstily

gathered round. For the entire day, they listened in silence.
Waiting by the edge of the opened eye. The flock of sheep

drifted down the white stony hillside. Like a grandmother's
hair at night, falling from its knot. Or like

teeth, which are whiter and more rigid
than bone. Like specters, jostling around the mouth.


THE SEQUENCE OF EMPTINESS

Ghastly the void at the page's edge,
where the sentence comes to an end
and floats across

to the next page, turning over
the leaves, yet nothing contains
within itself

the world, which, should you not
pay heed, is lost, for the Soul no longer
there resides,

only Malediction, as it watches
you in the Mirror, the pupil of its eye
observing

by the pages' end, where the void may arise,
the sentence penned may not remain
unfulfilled,

for that which is written must come to be,
He who is Sacred must appear:
Marana tha!

May grace upon us descend,
and may this world now reach its end!
Amen!


SEQUENCES OF CHRISTMAS

(1)

On Golgotha, by the crucifix,
our eyes are trained on sweet Jesus

who when he came into this world
for all our sakes was murdered

tiny being from his mother's womb
cast out upon this world

a naked life came all alone
and with it came a tiny soul

the infant has no swaddling clothes
only his father's watchful gaze

his tiny hand laid on the cross
and held in place with nails because

for all time now he must die
for our sakes he lies in agony

there the infant's tiny corpse
hovering above its soul there floats

on that night in Bethlehem
Pontius Pilate weeps alone

sees the one in the manger laid
the nails driven into his hands

the wide gash on his right side
crowned with thorns is the infant head

the manger's straw is slick with blood
tiny tiny Jesus brother

with his hands so very small
plays with the wounds in his tiny palms

turns them round, peering through:
the infant's face, dead, smiling.


FINAL MATTERS: HELL

He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Him —
for years now. He said: I try to forget
in vain. That day was like any
other, like a confining husk —

he repeated this daily. And he couldn't
even die, that too was no use. He looked at the wall.
In his eyes there was no longer any light.
Only a few irrelevant thoughts flitted across

his brain. A hesitant smile. "Where am I? —"
he asked, but expected no answer.
As with all the other questions, he hardly
believed there could be answers. He perceived

that for the one who has fallen
there is no longer any reason to ascend. "Maybe
in another life ..." he said at times. In vain. "... For I
live here among assassins, which is how I betray Him."


AETERNITAS

(2)

The Eternal is what
I'd rather forget:
Like life itself,
unyielding, without end.

A man approaches from the south
bearing a cross upon his back,
people gather round and ask,
"Where did you find that?"

If they ask he doesn't tell them
why he doesn't put it down,
he simply carries it further,
in his pocket there's no room.

He might put it in his wallet,
but no, not even there,
as he counts his pieces of silver,
"A thousand, a thousand and one ..."

Or even underneath his tongue,
because at times they ask:
"Are you one of the disciples?"
"Is Béla your name?"

"Are you by any chance Peter?"
He looks up in distress,
Always he must move on,
Never finding rest.


AETERNITAS

(3)

The Eternal
is like the axe
the assassin slams
into someone's head.

The Eternal is the act
of pillage from which
in panic the garret
now is empty.

The Eternal is scarlet,
like fresh blood. Above it
rises a vapor.
Then it too disappears.

The Eternal is like
the heart of him
the robbers murdered
without hesitation.

The Eternal is
like murder,
it destroys the Effigy,
the Face of the Dead.

The Eternal is flawless,
like the in-
decipherable Secret
of the Perfect Crime.

The Eternal is like
the eye
of the one killed:
Dread is in his gaze.

The Eternal weeps,
like the many Archangels
who served Jesus
in their Multitude.

The Eternal is like
the Dawn, to which
the Guardian Angel
shall no longer awaken.


SEQUENCES OF CHRISTMAS

(3)

Evening now in Bethlehem,
the swineherds fallen still —
In a decaying tavern,
Gypsy musicians play.

When the Three Kings arrive,
three roses red as blood.
Three wilted lilies
knock at the stable doors.

As through the crevice falls
a bit of the full moon.
It shines for two more years,
the knife on the tavern board.


ERRATIC LITURGY OF THE HOURS

Benedictus-antiphon

O, bliss of Sweet Death
come at midnight for our souls,
should our hearts not find peace
grant us at once the knife!
So we shall not suffer long
in the assasins' hands
come for us now, o Sweet Death,
in place of our Christ our Lord!
Send soldiers, and plunderers
who know the art of murder,
so that we may forget the Trees,
and all that's of this earth.


FINAL MATTERS: TIME WITHOUT END

Across the winter land, the vapors rise,
the thin smoke from the house's gas furnace.
The Orthodox cemetery on the mountainside
blinding, in the sunlight, like stone,

incandescent, while in the fire
the molten ore seethes in the cauldron.
In the afternoon the rain began,
as a few angels lounged

outside the dram-shop, lurching in the mire,
for free booze, or wenches, to slake their desire.
While far away, in the distant outskirts
Time itself had vanished for good,

for the day of the Last Judgment had come,
as the hordes of Christians trampled each other.
And the pagans sat there, sipping their Coke,
in the tavern known as "Time without End."


THE SEQUENCE OF CORRECTION

In Death's final snare,
in its infinite final Hour,
the stars playfully swim.

The bacchanalia resounds as
carousing through the pub
the Angels wander drunkenly.

Weeping, they lament the Christ,
who was born here,
freezing into blood. Slowly,

immersed in reverie, on the road
to Emmaus. Alone, like a pointing finger.
In which there is no mercy!


A PELIKÁN ALLEGÓRIÁJA

Mert mint ama Pelikán,
amely Rozmaringra száll,
Rozmaringnak ágára,

s néz a lemeno Napra,
mert immár napszállatra
fény esik a Halottra

a redony résein át,
arcát fénycsík szeli át,
várja a Feltámadást,
s a Madár csak halogat,
mikor már le ment a Nap,
számolja az ágakat,

a Rozmaring ágait,
amely olyan, mint a Hit
fénye, gyilkosan vakít:
"Kérlek zarándok Lelkem,
Téged is halott Testem,
Értsetek egyet velem:

Pelikán a Rozmaring-
ágra szállva ága ring,
s nem mozdítjuk szárnyaink.

Krisztus ötezer-négyszáz
És negyven ütést számlál,
amikor Ot megbántják,

s Töviskoronájának
hetvenkét kis ágának
tüskéi mind fájnának,

ha a Holt föl támadna,
s mint Pelikán, itt járna
az Allegóriája."


VÉGSO DOLGOK

A Halál

Nem volt semmi, ami több lett volna,
mint az elmúlt napok hordaléka,
mit a szél gyujtött az udvar szögletébe,
mígnem kijött a Fány néni, és elsöpörte,

és beszólt még a földszinti lakásba,
hogy "jó reggelt!", és "mi lesz ma ebédre?"
Aztán a nap sütött. Galambok szálltak
a házereszre. S látszott a beton minden rücske,

külön-külön és mindörökre. Tavasz volt.
A spaletták behajtva, a redunyök leeresztve.
S az ablak, hogy résre nyitva volt, az különös,
de mégse annyira. Aztán mindenki kereste

okát a furcsa szagnak. Így lett megint este
és reggel. Harmadik nap. De a földszinti
lakókat, idos házaspár, senki sem kereste.
A nyomozók unottak. Oket nem érinti

meg semmi már. Részegen érkeztek, és a
szomszéd büfében rátöltöttek. A hullákat
Húsvét miatt gyorsan eltemették. Az ügyet
ad acta tették. És nem kapcsolták be a Dies iraet.


AETERNITAS

(1)

Az örökké-valóság
hideg, mint a véso,
amellyel faragták
Jézusunknak arcát.

Az örökké-valóság
merül, mint a kavics,
nézed a folyót, hát
nyugodt újra a víz.

Az örökké-valóság
ugrik, mint a bolha,
mire odakapnál
már vagy a pokolba'.

Az örökké-valóság
mély, akár az elme,
amelyben lakozik
Krisztusunk kegyelme.

Az örökké-valóság
ketyeg, mint az óra,
néha mégis kihagy,
mondjuk, virradóra.

Az örökké-valóság
vékony, mint a penge,
amelyet a Halál
csempész a szívedbe.

Az örökké-valóság
rövid, mint az élet,
hirtelen ér véget,
mire elmeséled.


ROSARIUM

A Nimfákért

Van valami a lélekben. Talán a nagyravágyás,
ami nem hagyja nyugton. Emlékezetébol kihull

a várakozás ideje. Csak a körülmények maradnak,
a nyitott tenyér, a félrecsúszott száj, a hideg

érintés a homlokon. A szemhéj három-négy
öltéssel levarrva a könnyzacskóhoz. Most

mind a ketto csukott, csak szikével nyitható
már. A köldökzsinórt a fogaival rágta át. Az arca

véres lett. A fogak csikorgását hallották meg
a nimfák. A poézis tájain minden kallódó alak

követte a nyomát. A huto mellett kiömlött tej
foltot hagyott a kövön. Az árnyak szomjasan

gyultek köré. Egész napon át csak hallgatták.
A nyitott szem peremén várakoztak. A fehér,

köves domboldalon juhnyáj ereszkedett alá.
Mint nagymamák kibontott kontya este. Vagy

mint fogak, amelyek fehérebbek és merevebbek
a csontnál. Mint a tolakvó lelkek a száj körül.


AZ ÜRESSÉG SZEKVENCIÁJA

Üresség a lapok szélén félelmetes,
ahogy ott véget ér a mondat,
és átlebeg

a másik lapra, lapozgatva
közben, meg semmi nem tartja
magában

a világot, amely elvész,
ha nem figyelsz, már nincs is ott
a Lélek,

csak a Gonosz, amely Rád les
a Tükörben, s a szembogárban
figyelve

a lapszélen, üresség támadhat,
és leírt mondat nem maradhat
teljesületlen,

mert az írásnak be kell telni,
aki Szent, annak kell jönni:
Marana tha!

Szálljon le a kegyelem,
és múljék el ez a világ!
Amen!


KARÁCSONYI SZEKVENCIÁK

(1)

Golgotán a keresztfára
szemünk tekint Jézuskára

aki mikor megszületett
értünk akkor megöletett

anyaméhbol kicsi testét
e világra kivetették

egyedül jött csupasz élet
vele jött egy kicsi lélek

nem is volt még gatyácskája
úgy nézte az atyácskája

a keresztre pici kezét
felszögezték csupán ezért

meg kell halni mindörökre
értünk magát meggyötörte

kicsi Jézus halott teste
fölött lebegett a lelke

betlehemi éjszakában
Pilátus sír egymagában

néz a jászolban fekvore
szögek helyén a kezére

jobb oldalt a széles sebre
töviskoronás fejére

jászol alján iszamós vér
kicsi kicsi Jézus testvér

játszik a csöpp kis kezével
tenyerében a sebével

forgatja és átnéz rajta
mosolyog a halott arca.


VÉGSO DOLGOK

A Pokol

Csak ült az ágya szélén, s várta Ot —
már évek óta. Azt mondta, nem tudok
felejteni, hiába. Olyan ez a nap, mint
bármi más, mint egy szoros burok —

mondta napra-nap. És nem tudott
meghalni sem, hiába. Nézte a falat.
A szemében nem volt már semmi fény.
Csak néhány régi dolog átszaladt

fejében. Tétova mosoly. "Most hol vagyok?" —
kérdezte. De nem várt már semmi választ.
Ahogy a többi kérdésre sem hitte, hogy lehet
felelni még egyáltalán. Belátta már azt,

hogy nincs semmi, ami megérné felkelnie
annak, aki elesett. "Talán egy másik élet ...",
mondta néha. Hiába. "... mert elárulom Ot
azzal, hogy itt a gyilkosokkal közt élek."